For A Few Corpses More - Pt. 2

                Above the Earth existed a new colony, a shining example of man’s progression and ability to overcome the harshness of any environment. It took time, but they gathered in the home of the gods and built their array of metal and continued out from it in different structures and massive tunnels until it stretched over a third of the sky around their former home. It was now their new home. Still they ravaged mother Earth for their supplies with great metal arms that reached down into the depths of the planet to steal what the dead could not. With the iron fist of the former world’s militaries governing over them, man and woman from many different regions and cultures would have to learn to live together in a new floating city of Babel.

               The Mithras docked in Elysium city after meeting the proper protocols. Four men wearing all black thick suits and dome like helmets came out with long tubes in their hands. Each man positioned himself at a different point of the ship. A hiss broke from each tube. The switch on the bottom was flipped and pure blue flames with yellow tips kissed the metal hull of the Mithras on each side to cleanse it from its journey.

Once the fire had stopped and the four cleaners had pulled back their hoses the rest of the crew descended upon the ship like a swarm of worker ants. The pilot released the pistons and with a groan the back cargo bay door and side entrance that lead into the cockpit chamber lowered. Two metal clanks sounded off simultaneously as the passengers all gathered their gear.

Pierce didn’t make eye contact with anyone from the ship as he turned the engine of the ATV over and rode it down the metal ramp out into the hold. He was eager to reach decontamination first.

“Got a bad feeling,” Bronson said out loud as he carried his pack in one hand and their bounty in the other.

“When do you not,” Nyx asked with a smirk as she pushed strands of her hair away from her eyes, the area still hot from the flames, and now the smell of gasses and oil filled their noses. They began to walk around the ship. A twin sized duffle bag was thrown from inside the cockpit door and landed beside them.

“Damn these thirty-six hour shifts,” Tower exclaimed as he threw more bags down. They made a thud on the metal floor that caused a few heads to turn their way. “I’m so tired I feel like one of the corpses we just left.”

The two hunters regarded Tower as he came down the ramp and smiled at both of them. Nyx was the only one to return the smile.

“Sorry about asshole over there,” he waved a hand in the direction Pierce had sped off. “Too many like him these days, trying to make money at any cost. I don’t mind hauling people like you two around. You haven’t stopped giving a shit about other people yet,” he shook his head, “even if you might have to shoot em’ someday.”

“Thanks,” Nyx wasn’t above taking a compliment from a smiling face.

“We better go,” Bronson said. Turning, he looked back over his shoulder at Tower. “Thanks, I’ll keep you in mind next time we go down.”

The pair walked across the large expanse that was the main cargo hold for Elysium city. They went through the sliding metal doors into a long corridor that had instructions in multiple languages written on the walls in different colors, all about protocols and containment procedures.

“You’re one for one today.”

“I’m not here to make friends, Nyx.”

“Oh,” she scoffed. “A fact of which I am painfully aware. The first time we met you put me in handcuffs.”

“Procedure.”

She laughed at his response. “They still have you guarding the French Quarter, or did your transfer finally come in so you can leave me?”

“I’m still there. I’m sure I’ll see you at some point tonight.”

“Right,” she nodded. “Hey, I want to go grab a shower and a quick nap before work if possible. You okay with running the heads by yourself, just give me the credits later?”

“You trusting me with your half of the money, that isn’t like you.”

She laughed hard at that and threw her head back slightly as they reached the end of the hallway which broke off into ten different smaller pathways.

“If I can’t trust you, Bronson, I can’t trust anyone on this floating shit pile.”

He didn’t respond to her. They broke up and took two adjacent paths out of the ten. At the end of the smaller tunnels were large metal doors with a small octagon of glass and several warning labels, one of which was against radiation. A loud hiss as the door opened and the room decompressed for each of them.

The doors shut behind them in their separate rooms. Several vents lined the ceiling and metal grates ran across the floors. Four small circular white lights framed the two doors. There was a table and several pull out drawers on the left wall. The lights turned from white to yellow and the two began.

Before Bronson could do anything else he opened up the drawer marked “bio-organic specimens”. Careful in his task, he removed each of the six heads and placed them in there with space in between each. Once satisfied with their positioning he slid the drawer shut tightly and locked the handle back into place.

Nyx had no need for the first drawer, she opened the second first. Inside her machete and pistol were placed. The radio, that she had worked hard to earn, had been placed down separately and gently. Lastly, she reached down and fathered up the ends of each shirt in her fingers before pulling them all up over her head. The clothes were discarded onto the small table that was built into the wall. In between her breasts, above the faded brown sports bra was the golden cross on the long silver chain she wore. It was placed in the box on top of everything before shutting and securing it.

Bronson’s guns and dog tags were put in the second drawer on his side. They were also carefully placed, safeties on. They would be cleaned later, as he did after every trip out. Bandana and mask inside his hat he placed it down on the table. He unclasped his belt and then his holsters and leg straps. His boots and pants were on the table next followed by his shirt and brown boxers. He was stripped clean of clothing and anything else on his person. Bronson was tall and muscular with long dark hair that was getting to the length he had begun to put it in a ponytail. His body wore the scars of war, next to his tattoos of service on his arms. His left calf was missing a large chunk that had grown back at a right angle, a pound of flesh he had lost.

Nyx’ clothes were also discarded onto the table as well. She had shorter auburn hair that barely made it down to her shoulders. She was tanned, but not as evenly as she would have liked. She was thin and her muscles were toned from the work that she put in with Bronson and the others. The tattoo that took up the majority of her back was a large cross with the full moon behind it. It was something she valued, something no one could take away.

Both placed their feet where the outlined diagram showed on the floor. Nyx always tensed up at this part. The yellow lights near each door darkened into a sickly orange and began to rotate in large circles around the room, shining their lights in circular patterns. The two hunters closed their eyes tightly. A chilling gas that smelled like mint shot down from the vents above engulfing the room. Before the gas was fully settled six small silver spigots popped up from the metal grating at their feet. Liquid shot out in a continuous wave from the rotating nozzles. Burning against their flesh, the liquid mixed with the gas and hardened into an almost cream-like shell over their skin.

No matter how many times she went through it, Nyx still flinched and shivered while the bio-bath was going on. Bronson simply put his mind somewhere else. To him it was still better than a trip to the dentist.

The vents calmed and the spigots sank back down underneath the grates. A tone sounded. The spinning lights stopped their motion and turned a bright green of approval. After a pause Bronson clenched his fists, his muscles flexed. Several large pieces of the new off-yellow shell broke apart and fell away. Popping his neck roughly, many of the other pieces followed and fell to the floor falling down into the metal grates to be disposed of. Nyx preferred to use her fingernails to get the material off of her as fast as possible, not liking the itchy feeling it gave.

The next step would be to clean the shell off of your clothes. They had learned to simply shake the item furiously until the substance broke apart. It didn’t take long for the material to begin to evaporate as the room’s temperature increased, after temporarily becoming a goo-like substance.               

Nyx was usually out first. Bronson saw her give a wave of her hand as she crossed the rest of the bio-tech area and headed under the large electronic archway that would take her home. Bronson went to the table just outside of the door that had let him out. The two drawers awaited him. He first retrieved his weapons and secured them and his dog tags back in place. The second drawer contained the heads, now sealed in plastic with a yellow dye lining the inside that showed that they were not contaminated. He opened up the black canvas bag and replaced them each in the pattern he liked. Cargo returned to his shoulder he headed across the room to a different archway, one that spelled out “Titan Gardens” in electronic blue letters. The same name and directions to other places that were this way were broadcasting across the archway in other colors and different languages.

“Weapons, ID’s, and anything you’re bringing back from outside, I need to see it!”

Bronson followed the voice of the bellowing security guard up to the checkpoint. Reaching into a pocket he produced a small black piece of thick folded leather. From between the folds he produced the metallic card with his picture and information on them. The guard scanned them and then looked to the rifle on Bronson’s back and the pistols on his side.

“Gonna need those.”

Without answering Bronson flipped open the top of the black leather to reveal a golden plate. The image of a black and gold bird with a barcode under it caused the guard to raise an eyebrow and then nod.

“Right, well you can keep the pistols but the rifle still has to go in your storage unit.”

“I’m aware,” Bronson said as he pulled the black canvas bag from his shoulder and pulled open the draw strings so the man could see inside.

“Ah,” he remarked with a smile, “productive day for you.” A small device the shape of a pen spread a green laser out over the heads. The guard counted them and then marked something down on an electronic pad. Motioning Bronson to step through the scanner, he buzzed him through. Nyx always had to leave her weapons in her storage compartment outside of the main city. Bronson’s job made it where he could carry most weapons on him at all times, just in case, it was the main reason he wanted the position. He stopped at the personal holds section of strong metal framed lockers. At locker G-18 he paused and entered an eight digit code that he knew by heart. He checked his rifle and wiped it down with a cloth after removing the ammunition and separating the scope from the weapon.

Past the check point were the platforms. The rail systems were all running through this point, as they did with the other five major points. He walked to his marker up by the purple line and waited. Standing there, bags in hand, he thought back to before all of this. When he was much younger he would wait for the subway in New York to go see his father or a baseball game. There were so many differences to this, but the reminder was always there.

The outskirts of the city, places like this, were pretty bare at this hour. First shift had ended and second shift would be preparing to leave soon. Unless your third shift job was on the outer rim of the space colony, at this time, you were either heading to bed or to the French Quarter. Everyone had to have a job after age sixteen, based off of your test scores and what you could do. There were no exceptions. Bronson was a security guard. He didn’t mind his job because it felt like a service. He felt like he was doing something good for what was left.

An electronic hum began softly along the singular metal rail and grew louder as four speeding platforms rode it into the station. The platforms had no operator on them, just markers to show you where to board them. The purple circle indicated where you could stand. There were several people riding the rail to other stops. Bronson chose the rectangular block with the fewest number of people on it. There was a buzz that let them know that the magnetic field which held them all in place and kept them from being thrown off was activating. It took some getting used to, suddenly feeling ten pounds heavier and restricting your movement until the next stop. He wasn’t going far though.

One of the perks for being a guard was opting to live in Titan square, in the Titan Gardens district. It was the safest place in Elysium city. They were mostly single room one person living areas. No smoking, no pets, just the way Bronson liked it. The gardens were a mixture of metal and stone along the floors and walls with a sprinkling of real trees and flowers amongst all of the fake ones. There were a series of solar windows that opened up in the roof and walls to help light the gardens, one of the few places where natural light could get through. The sun’s rays were so harmful though that the shutters had to rotate depending on the time of day. Bronson lowered the brim of his hat to block out the sun as he crossed the marble-lined courtyard to his quarters.

In the back of the quarter, in building H, Bronson entered his single-room apartment. The walls were off-white with nothing on them and the ceiling was bare other than the lights and two vents. There was a desk with a small computer console on it and a bed with black sheets but no frame, it rested close to the floor.  Next to the bathroom with the stand-up shower was a small closet. He slid the door to the closet open and pulled a silver case from behind some old boxes. In the case he replaced his two .45 pistols and retrieved his guard-issue service piece. A 9mm. weapon that was also equipped with a flashlight on the bottom of the barrel and a sun setting. The handle came to life when he touched it, requiring a thumb print for the safety to be removed.

Bronson then re-secured the silver case in its hiding place and pulled out a coat hanger with a grey suit on it. The wide shouldered padded guard’s suit was thick and heavy. In the grey of the fabric were several strips of armor woven into the cloth down the legs and arms with a sheer plate over the chest and back. The black belt that went with it held two pockets of ammunition, hard-light cuffs, and a collapsible baton in a holder on the side. He slid his guard-issue pistol in on the right hand side and finished the suit off by placing the grey cap on his head which showed his extra rank for military service in gold bars. Removing the black folded leather piece from earlier he turned it inside out and hung it around a silver chain that hung from his neck, the gold and black bird showing above the barcode for all to see.

               Black canvas bag in hand, there was one more place to stop before work. A quick ride out of the Titan Gardens and into the Trade District changed the scenery from a bright and new feeling to that of dark browns and hastily built structures with a lower ceiling under the area. The street lamps here were dull and the sidewalks were filthy, that was nothing compared to the smell though. The rails ran above the district, which caused the rattling and humming sounds that echoed through the alleyways. To Bronson, this place was the closest he had ever felt to home out here.

               Towards the back of the Trade District was a grouping of buildings in a semi-circle that all had flashing neon and advertisements for making credits. The furthest building down the row had a red and white cross on it with a young girl standing outside of it. She was dressed as a nurse in an excessively short white skirt and a push-up bra to show off her breasts in the outfit. She was passing out fliers about donating plasma for credits. Next to it was a slightly cleaner building that advertised that they wanted to purchase semen samples. There were a few other buildings, nothing illegal out in the open like this though. The three largest buildings in the large semi-circle though were the ones that didn’t out themselves on their signs. “The Sandstorm Company”, “Wolsten”, “Dead Man Inc”, they were all laid out in different types and fonts on their signs. They all wanted the same thing.

Bronson’s choice though was “Cada-dine”. Bronson preferred his evils to be of the lesser variety. Cada-dine hadn’t given up on everyone, on Earth; they were still actively trying to find a cure. At least they were convincing about it. Walking in, there was another cold mist that sprayed him down before the other set of doors opened and the lounge music of the white sterile lobby hit his ears. He went and stood in line behind the other two customers. His right hand gripped the canvas bag tightly as his left rested on his hip with the back of his hand touching the handle of the pistol, anxiously.

When his time came the young Indian girl behind the counter in her black business suit smiled at him. Her name tag read Sandeep.

“Back again,” she asked, handing him a tablet to begin filling out the electronic paperwork.

Bronson nodded, “six today, split two ways if you would.”

“Not bad for just two of you. How’s your partner anyway?”

“She’s fine, thanks.”

Her finger twirled in the strands of her straight long dark hair as she waited for him to finish. When the paperwork was done he double checked the tablet, scrolling back through and then handing it to her.

“How is it down there these days? I haven’t been in over a decade.”

The door to the side opened and a man in a white containment suit came out. Bronson opened the black canvas bag and the man removed the six plastic bagged heads of the former living dead and placed them on a small cart.

“Probably better you don’t, to be honest.”

“Oh,” she mused, sliding the two small disks through the machine. “I’m sure if I went down with you I’d be fine.”   

Bronson forced a smile and held his hand out palm up for the two small circular discs. Sandeep deposited them into his hand.

“Thanks for your business. We’ll put them to good use.”

Bronson nodded and turned from the counter. He headed out the door, folding up the now empty canvas bag in his hand. Checking the time, he turned to head towards the French Quarter. It was connected to the Trade District by two large multi-level tubes. Bronson walked up on the top level as transports and people on personal use vehicles sped down below him heading to and from. As he walked he could see the Earth through the glass out one side and the distant reaches of space out the other. Seeing both of these views was one of the things that made him appreciate walking this way. Lying in between two of the most unattractive parts of the city was this serene view. No work, nothing dead; from up here, everything still looked normal. 

For A Few Corpses More - Pt. 1

               High above, on their perch they were safe. Flat on their stomachs the two individuals laid across the old cracked pavement motionless. The larger figure dressed in blacks and dark browns, his form extended by the rifle he held, stared down the lens of a high powered scope. The second individual was shorter, dressed in grays and dark greens with a hood for protection.

               “You’re clear,” a soft voice said from underneath the hood, a pair of camouflaged binoculars jutting out from underneath the cloth.

               The old bridge that connected the road over the deep valley had been broken on both sides for several years. The wind blew past their ears and the heat beat down on them, the sun was vicious these days. From their perch they peered down at their prey, a lucky lone straggler. Through the scope he could see the young Asian woman, or what was left of her, fidgeting at the hole in her stomach as she stumbled across the rocks. She wore nothing but the muddied jeans and leaves in her hair. Her breasts were small and perky but accented by the large pink and purple butterfly tattoo that had been splattered with dried blood.

               Bronson couldn’t help but think she was probably an attractive woman at one point, but that would have been before she had started walking around without her lower jaw. Now his sights on the custom scope were lined up perfectly between her eyes. He looked past the make-shift suppressor on the weapon and tried his best to account for the wind, he was no amateur though. His gloved finger caressed the trigger with a cool contemplated action. He had been watching her for almost thirty minutes, just waiting for his spotter to make sure all of the other elements were right.

               The rifle made deafening thump, but the noise wouldn’t carry across the valley, and that was the important part. Discretion and subtlety were words to live by in their line of work. Through the scope he saw the small puff of red mist spray from the back of the once beautiful woman’s head. There was a pause that might have been something akin to respect as he looked away, allowing the body to slowly slump to its knees and then on the ground.

               “Count em’, Nyx.”

               She paused and pulled back the hood revealing her short black hair and a devious smirk of deep purple lips.

               “What, you think they’ve multiplied magically?”Standing, she began to brush the dust from her pants and elbows, a fruitless effort out here. “You know it’s been a shitty day. Let’s just bag the heads and get back early.”

               His lips didn’t move. There was just a deep growl in his throat that showed his displeasure to her notion.

               “Hey, I’ve still got to work tonight and I’m betting you do too,” she said wagging a finger at him. “So forgive me if I’d like a few extra minutes to myself.” She said as her eyes glanced upwards at the hot burning sky.

               She quickly replaced the hood and reached down next to where she had been lying, fingers wrapping around the handle of the machete. She gave him one last glance to let him know that she really was done for the day before grabbing the long black spun cords of rope.

               Bronson finally stood and removed his wide brimmed black hat. He slung the rifle over his back and adjusted his side holster with the old colt .45 with the long nosed barrel that he had stolen. The metal of the gun reflected the light of the sun brightly when it wasn’t covered up by the old dirtied duster. His tanned cargo pants and black muscle shirt were torn and singed a bit as well ever since the incident with the fire two weeks back.

               Nyx had already secured the rope around the metal support and was tightening it to her waist. He didn’t like her going down first but she was at the point where she had become impatient. Their hours were long out here: and with the heat on top of everything, keeping arguments to a minimal was preferred. Bronson wasn’t a huge talker anyway and they had been doing this long enough for her to know what she was doing. Even with that being true, he still watched her as she rappelled down the supports for the old bridge. It wasn’t easy getting up or down, but it was the best spot they had found so far, especially for their methods.

               Nyx hit the ground, her hand on the handle of the machete at her belt, just in case. She unhooked and made sure the rope was ready for her partner. A quick nod to let him know and then she was off to start what she referred to as the fun part.

               There were only six today, but that was six thousand credits which meant three thousand credits for each of them. It was more than they could hope to make in a week at their so-called jobs. So though she hated it, Nyx raised the machete from its sheath and let it pause in the air as she focused. The bright hot sun reflected off the metal before it quickly came down and cut into the dead Asians woman’s neck. She’d do three. Bronson would get the others, that was how this partnership worked. She was already cutting the little dangling bits off of the neck base when her partner made it down with their bag.

               Reaching into the black canvas bag he removed several smaller bags and handed three to her before beginning his own work in the valley. The two worked in silence. It wasn’t like the conversation was going to be all that interesting but this practice also helped them listen out for threats while they were tending to the heads of the deceased.

               Once all of the heads were bagged and secured in the black canvas bag it was time to go. Bronson threw it over the same shoulder as the rifle, adjusting both straps to make sure they were secured in place. Nyx always offered to carry the bag, she had worked hard to prove her worth down here and she would have run herself in to the ground to show she was tough enough to do the job. Bronson always refused though, saying the weight of the bag on a good day would slow them down if she carried it. He didn’t let her carry it on light days either though, which she didn’t like. The truth was though that if something ever happened to the cargo in question, whoever was carrying the bag would be held responsible and he didn’t want to put that on her. This was a risk versus rewards job and it was a little too easy to not get any reward if you messed up.

               The pair walked out of the valley the same way they had come in, each observant though they were both already in the mindset of what they would do when they returned back home. Once out of the valley they could see what used to be the city to their right. The skeletons of old sky scrapers and temples of the all-powerful dollar lay hollowed out, destroyed, or just abandoned amongst an almost desert terrain. Even though it wasn’t discussed, each time they got to this point Bronson would pause and admire the city for a moment or two and Nyx remained quiet in this time. Though the more they came down the less he seemed to linger. It had been years after all.

               The two followed what used to be Interstate 15 for five miles. They stopped to rest after they reached the once green faded road sign that read: “Las Vegas 20m”, a usual rest place for them. There were fewer dangers on the road.

               “Wanna call in?”

               Bronson nodded to her. Nyx reached down to her belt where there was a small black box attached with several blinking blue and green lights that let her know the device was working and connected. She removed a slender ear piece and stick from the box. Placing it in her ear and listening across the channel before she spoke, she cleared her throat.

               “Rat pack calling Mithras, rat pack calling Mithras,” there was a pause as she called the sun god. “Come in Mithras.”

               “Mithras here,” a broken voice said across the line.

               “Requesting extraction Mithras, when is your next scheduled pick-up?”

               There was a few seconds of radio silence, a moment that always made Nyx nervous.

               “I’ve got ya, girl. I’m coming in now. There’s another party needing a lift at LZ-121 if you can hoof it over there you can ride.”

               The man on the comm. With the southern accent sounded friendly but she got his meaning, don’t be late unless you want to get left. They could always wait for another transport but then what was the point of knocking off early this trip? She glanced at Bronson to make sure he agreed with her but the big man had already started walking.

               “Roger Mithras, party of two incoming to LZ-121. See you there.”

               If there was a response she didn’t wait for it. The earpiece and microphone were replaced on the black box as she picked up the pace to catch her partner. Running in this heat could spell disaster if you weren’t careful. Bronson knew all of the survival tricks though, and he had made sure Nyx had learned enough not to slow him down.

               The landing zone was only two miles from where they were and they had made pretty good time. It was an old abandoned drive in theatre, now just a flat paved surface really with a few lingering structures that showed what used to go on there. They leaned against the wall of the former concessions stand and Bronson checked the canvas sack, checking their investment.

               “Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Nyx said re-adjusting her sleeves and hood after the run. She lifted the collar of her shirt to check for the golden cross on the silver chain that she wore around her neck. “I’m not used to waiting on them.”

               “I used to hate waiting for trains,” Bronson grumbled. “Best and worst part about New York was the public transportation.”

               Nyx sneered, “I bet it was nice before, you just don’t like anything.”

               There was a rumble in the sky, like if thunder was set on loop.

               “There we go. I don’t hate that sound.”

               Nyx laughed and stood. She was feeling more relaxed now since they were about to leave and was about to say something snarky to him. That was when she noticed him staring off into the distance though at a small dust cloud over a hill, she had to squint to see it. Right then the black box attached to her waist began to vibrate violently against her and she almost jumped. It was a warning. Her hand moved quickly to retrieve the headpiece and place it back to her ear. Again she paused to listen across the airways before doing anything else. This time a frantic voice, no Mithras but someone else, was yelling across the radio.

               “That boat better be ready to go! I’ve got a whole horde of dead fucks behind me! Do you hear me Mithras, anyone!?”

               “Bron, we’ve got trouble.”

               Before she could even finish he had already thrust the Canvas bag in her arms and was bringing his rifle up. The sun flared slightly off of the rifle’s scope, there was no prep time and these would be hard shots.

               From the dust cloud, over the hill an ATV popped up with a small jump from its speed. As it landed back in the sand the tiny vehicle bucked and pulled the wrong way, leaving the driver trying to regain control. The goggles and head gear of the rider wore didn’t look familiar to Nyx. She didn’t have time to think about that though as she saw the other spots coming over the hill, bobbing heads and shoulders all walking grouped together. There had to be thirty or forty of them at least she thought: all different colors, shapes, and sizes and all hungry.

               Even if Bronson’s rifle wasn’t silenced she wouldn’t have heard the shots. The sky broke out in another loud roar as the blue-white flames of afterburners burned away the clouds above them. A halo-like circle had been made as the grey metal ship that was about the size of a small house came in slowly to land on the old cracked pavement.

               Throwing the canvas bag over one shoulder Nyx fished for her sidearm with her free hand, though she wasn’t sure if this was going to go well if they got close enough for her to use it. Bronson’s rifle moved just slightly after each pull of the trigger, taking out the ones closest to them. He knew this wasn’t going to do much though as he saw the others piling over the hill, a wall of corpses that he had nowhere near enough bullets for. A part of him couldn’t help but realize how much money he was sacrificing there as well. Bullets were expensive and there were no heads to show for them.

               The ATV sputtered as it hit the main road and raced towards the parking lot. Nyx looked up at the craft, their way home, and silently prayed for it to move faster. From the cockpit the pilot eyed the situation and his hands moved quickly. The ship spun around with a burst of the right afterburner. The large dome-like cylinder shot out a blue flame and now the back of the ship faced them. Without even touching the ground yet the large cargo door fell slowly with the robotic pistons that held it in place.

               “In, now,” the voice said over the outside speaker system.

               The metal door clanked on the pavement as the ship hovered off the ground still just a bit, its struts shaking from the tension of the still pulsing engines. Nyx looked up to see the ATV turn sharply up onto the ramp with another choking sputter. The vehicle didn’t slow much and had to screech to a halt in the loading dock of the Mithras.

               Bronson fired one more shot with his rifle into the fray hitting the lead ghoul in the ankle, almost obliterating it. The figure slumped and fell but there was no time to make sure it stumbled up his brethren, like Bronson had hoped it would. He turned sharply as the rifle strap was flung back over his shoulder. He glanced to Nyx, she was safe and she had the bag. The door to the cargo area was already closing. He heard the mechanical whirring of the pistons as they struggled to speed through the closing procedure.

               “Let’s go,’ barked the man in the goggles at the pilot.

The door wasn’t closed yet though and Bronson was already climbing in up over the lip of the ramp. He cussed as he slid down the metal. The door wasn’t even sealed yet when the pilot called back.

“Hold on to something!”

There was a rumble and the tail end took a small dip as the thrusters re-adjusted. The horde that had been following behind the rider was almost at the ship, and they’d pay for that. The engines roared and the flames shot out in two heavy plumes of hot whites and blues which incinerated the first few corpses and burned about five or six others to the ground where they stood. The ship shot upwards and Nyx could see out the side that the once faded pavement was now pitch black with little splashes of color from the flaming bodies.

They soon hit the clouds and the rumbling of the ship lessened. Nyx had been clutching the canvas bag the whole way up to make sure nothing had happened to it. She was turning to ask Bronson if he was alright even though she knew the answer, her surprise was that he was not only already standing but with a single punch had just knocked the other cowboy off of his feet and onto the metal grate floor.

“You piece of shit!”

The guy looked stunned from his new position on the floor. Nyx wasn’t used to seeing Bronson this angry, she wasn’t sure if she should try to intervene or not. It didn’t matter though. Her partner hadn’t finished his tongue lashing.

“You recklessly endangered all of us by going into a populated area didn’t you? You took in a vehicle when you’ve been warned the noise attracts them, didn’t you?”

Bronson raised his hand again as if he were going to backhand the man. He wasn’t going to, until the guy started reaching for his sidearm, the one he couldn’t even bother to use to help the others with the mess he had made.

“Back off,” the guy stuttered out as he pulled the pistol. A size thirteen black boot was already pinning his wrist back down to the metal though.

“For what,” Bronson asked the guy as he glanced over at the ATV and the green sack with blood stains at the bottom, “three, four heads? You almost got us killed for that?”

“Fuck you,” the rider hissed. “Let me up, now. You don’t know who I work for.”

The cockpit door swung open just after the boat finally leveled off.

“What the hell is going on,” the pilot asked with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his uncut blonde hair hanging over his eyes slightly.

“Get him off of me!”

Bronson finally obliged and took his boot off of the man, but he was watching him closely. Tension stained the air as the hull shook and the atmosphere was broken. The pilot looked over Bronson and Nyx, then to the other man. He looked around before speaking to him.

“You’re Jonah Pierce, the guy that called me down earlier right? Thought there were three of you?”

“They didn’t make it,” the rider said with a crack in his voice. “I’m the one that called you, but they got eaten.”

“Great,” the pilot remarked sarcastically. “Two more problems to deal with next time we come down.” He turned to Bronson and Nyx. “I’m glad you two were here, I’m Tower, Jason Tower.” He extended a hand to both of them. “I’m going to get us underway, you guys sit tight.”

Tower headed back to the cockpit and shut the door. There was a moments pause where Bronson was looking across the cargo bay at Pierce.

“Once again you prove to be good at making friends,” Nyx commented with a smirk.

“We saved his life,” Bronson said low. “He endangered ours, he’s lucky I don’t report his ass.”

A voice broke back over the intercom, Tower making sure he had made his point. “Keep it friendly back there while I’m taking us in. I’m overworked enough as is without you guys causing a ruckus.”

Pierce shot his two saviors a look before he began checking over his ATV. Nyx and Bronson strapped into the bench on the side of the hold, the green leather straps and silver metal buckles securing them into place. The shaking began to increase and Pierce almost fell over trying to strap himself in.

Bronson eyed the small leather pouch that Pierce had his hand clutched firmly to, something more important than the heads he had collected. Glancing at Nyx to tell her something, he realized she was caught up in the spectacle outside of the ship again. He glanced out the thick dusty window with her as the last bits of blue faded into black and the engines burned hot and fierce to propel them further upwards. Amongst the blackness of space, just above the planet, a web of metal and lights stretched outward. Their home, amongst the stars, grew closer. Nyx watched it in awe. She hated Earth, and she whispered a silent prayer every time they left unharmed. 

The Job No One Wants

            “Why do we need help?”

            “John,” Phil paused, “You’re a dumb twat, but not for that reason alone, I’ll explain it in full.”

            Phil was a cranky old man to begin with but when you threw the fact that they were trying to do something illegal on top of that. The four men sat around the old stone table at the even older Irish pub. They could hear the trains riding the rails in the distance and the commotion of the patrons inside to their left of their round table. It was cold out, even for New York State. They wanted privacy and this was a good way. Phil was a convicted felon, even if it was years ago, there was no assurance his place still wasn’t tapped.

            “You think you’re all set to break into a fortune 500 private security company because you have a professional safe-cracker and a stone cold killer on your side?” Phil had continued after taking a drink from the pint in front of him. “You’ve never even done this before. Last I heard the biggest crime you were up to was robbing old women of their pension checks.”

            John would have usually had a sarcastic remark for that. He said nothing, because it was true. Castor was eyeing them both waiting for Phil to get to the point. He didn’t like being exposed like this. Castor didn’t really like Phil either, every chance he got he referred to him as their hired killer. Killer or not, he was starting to realize these guys were the only people he could tolerate.

            “You need some inside information.”

            “We have an insider,” Ryan finally spoke up.

            “Your girlfriend doesn’t fucking count.” Phil shook his head. “When I say inside information I mean floor plans, security details, and access codes.”

            “She can get that stuff!”

            “Right, well what about when Lela gets caught and she vanishes on you, eh? She’s useless to you then, and you’re out your girl.” He snorted. “Plus I ain’t confident she could get it done.”

            “Enough.”

            “Plus you started with her for her looks, not her hacking and espionage skills I’d assume.”

            “Enough,” Ryan said a second time.

            “Why this chick that you’ve found then,” John switched the subject but he was doing it out of his own curiosity.

            “Varla Samson, the only person who actually has an axe to grind with Condor Security like you do.”

            “And why is that,” Castor exclaimed in between glances around the stone patio.

            “Varla Samson is a shareholder in Condor Security. She has access to all of the things we need and a grudge against Michael Temple, the CEO.”

            “What’s her gripe?”

            “Well Jonny-boy, let’s just say it had something to do with her little sister and a bottle of lube. She fell victim to Mr. Temple and his little soldiers.”

            “Wonderful,” Ryan scoffed.

            “Just keep that in mind for what could happen if he catches little Lela.”

            “That won’t happen.”

            “Don’t get defensive over your girlfriend, it could happen, anything could happen and that is why we should be prepared.” Castor was right and Phil knew it. He had to make sure these boys knew exactly what they were dealing with on all fronts.

            “Varla could be our greatest ally or a fearsome enemy if we aren’t careful. She’s going to expect us to try and fuck her over, I’d imagine, so we need to make sure that we don’t give her any reason to believe that we have.”

            A young couple emerged from the side door of the bar. They were laughing about something and the noise caused a shush over the whole group as they stared at the intruders. The girl pulled her jacket tighter around her, partially because of the cold but some due to feeling exposed in front of these men.

            “Let’s go over here…,” the young man’s voice trailed off.

            “You three could scare away a corpse,” John quipped.

            “Let em go find somewhere else to screw, get back to your story old man.”

            Phil finished off his pint and nodded to Castor’s request.

            “Reason I urge caution is Varla may not seem like it but she is quite the little killer.” He looked up at the night sky, recalling the tale. “She used to live in a penthouse down on Lexington, nice place but not big on the security. It was pretty well known that she had quite the nice art collection ranging from Georgia O’Keeffe to obscure Rodins. A guy that used to be called Mick Tanner broke into her place one night with intent to steal all of these and any petty cash he could find lying around. He was an amateur safe cracker and a pretty shitty fence but he had managed some decent scores and found himself a sneaky little way in through the roof.”

            “Get to the point…”

            “Let him finish Ryan.”

            Phil paused and eyed Ryan harshly, he hated being interrupted.

            “Right, so he goes and gets a bunch of the paintings from her main room but all the good stuff is in the bedroom with her in a safe. He figured he’d just slip in and nip her in the back of the head one good time and be gone before she had the chance to wake up. Seemed like a good idea until he went in there and saw her all sprawled across the sheets with her face planted in the pillow and nothing but a pair of black panties on. She used to be some kind of swimsuit model or something; still shows too after all these years. So Mick, he hesitates, really thinks he’s screwed the pouch on this one too because the door woke her up and her tired ass isn’t going to take too long to realize what’s going on.”

            “I swear this sounds like a porno,” John muttered.

            “It kind of is. She realizes what he’s doing but all her shit is insured and the important stuff he’s not going to be able to fence without letting people know where it is. She’s got a little bit of an exhibitionist in her, so she decides to let him in her, right? I guess she thought ol’ Mick should be thrilled for the opportunity at such a pretty girl but it wasn’t really the case. Sure, he dropped pants and went at her, enjoyed her quite a bit I’m sure, but then he got greedy. Mick bent her over and started going at her bum to keep that rush of dominance of whatever was getting him off going.”

            “So he raped her,” Ryan sounded unsure of his own question.

            “She may have told him to stop. I don’t know I wasn’t there. Either way, she didn’t like it.”

            “Just finish.” Castor said as he lit another cigarette.

            “Right, that’s what he did. He took advantage of the situation and left his little kids sprayed out all over her and her nice sheets. He took the paintings and locked her in the bedroom to give himself some time to get them all down to his van.”

            “Let me guess,” John said with a smirk, “he was stupid enough to try to fence them here in New York? He got caught.”

            “Oh yeah, no one ever accused ol’ Mick of being overly smart or anything.” He motioned for Castor to hand him one of the cigarettes. Castor paused, keeping count of how many he had taken with that gap toothed smile of his. “So let’s jump ahead two weeks to when someone makes Mick Tanner a deal he can’t refuse on the Rodin. It’s at some warehouse over near 6^th avenue. Mick thinks he’s being all safe by bringing a friend and keeping the paintings in the van until the deal is made. When they come in though it’s all dark and shit and both of them wind up with black hoods over their heads.”

            Phil paused to light the cigarette before continuing.

            “So Mick wakes up bent over some crate and tied down to it. Took him a second or two probably to realize his pants were down round his ankles.”

            “Really,” John questioned with an almost disgusted look on his face.

            “Yep, there he lay all bound and bare for Varla who stood in front of him. She didn’t say nothing though. She just had four big guys there with foreign objects and a coupl of big dildos, told em to pay Micky back for what he had done.”

            “You said he ‘used’ to be called Mick Tanner.”

            “Right you are Ryan, Varla wasn’t finished with him. He was standing there what blood coming out of his arse after those boys were done with him and then she came back. She asked how he liked it or some such and wanted to know if he had learned anything.”

            Phil was a good storyteller. As he paused to take a long puff on the cigarette John and Ryan leaned forward.

            “Well, what did he say,” John said glancing between the other three.

            “Hell if I know,” Phil said letting out a long stream of smoke. “Whatever he said she slit his throat right after that and his body ended up in the river. His friend got dropped off somewhere in Harlem, couldn’t do much about it either he hadn’t seen anyone’s face and neither one of them knew the fake buyers real name.”

            “Right, so she’s killed someone.” Castor wasn’t impressed.

            “And you think just cause you have you shouldn’t be cautious, she’s vicious.”

            “But you’re convinced we need her.”

            “Yes Ryan. Unless you want to take another year planning this perfectly, you need Varla Samson and I can get you a meeting with her.”

            There was a good thirty seconds of silence before anyone spoke up, it was a big decision.

            “Set it up,” Castor finally said.

            Ryan looked at him for a moment. He considered himself the kind of default leader of the group but Castor was right, no one wanted to wait any longer to make this happen. Phil was a good storyteller, but the three young criminals had unfortunately missed his point. 

Blood and Shadow - Pt. 3

Amy was having breakfast with her mother, the pain of which was written across her face in plane shades that she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.

“I am of course expecting no later than September or October, assuming we don’t get Alex’ parents to finally agree to move the wedding up a year—which I think your father is going to be able to do in the next few months if he and Sam keep playing golf together.”

“I’m sorry, I think I lost you there mother,” she hadn’t, but Amy was still a little shocked and wanted to make sure to point it out. “You expect me to have a child, when exactly?”

“Well I’m hoping around nine months or so after the wedding, but no reason you can’t start trying before.” Her tone was like that of a teacher who was just stating a fact of an assignment. “Go ahead so we can see if you have a boy or not, determine how many children we’ll want and such while you’re still young.”

She just stared at her mother with her upper lip twisted in a sour expression, trying to get her point across.

“We should discuss names as well. George Hamilton for the first born boy of course, after your father, but I am sure you’ll have at least one girl if not more.”

Amy groaned. “For God sakes mother I’m not even sure-“

“You know what this means to your father and I.”

“Yes, to you two, what about me?”

Deborah wasn’t looking at her daughter anymore and hardly listening. She had removed a small compact mirror and was checking under her eyes and around her lips.

“Amy,” she paused, “dear you’re going to be well taken care of. You know that. After the baby is born and we find a suitable Au Pair you’ll have a lot of free time on your hands to do what you want. You should be thrilled.

“Why, so I cannot spend any time with my child or the man I’m married to?”

Amy wasn’t sure her mother was even going to answer her question. That was okay though because her phone rang with something a little more important.

“Hello,” she said glad for the distraction, “yes, this is she.”

She fell quiet and just listened for several moments. Her mother still hadn’t noticed until Amy finally responded to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Yes, I understand. Please let me know as soon as he is put into a room.” Her mother raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Thank you,” she said before hanging up. Amy was staring at her phone for a moment as her thumb fumbled to try to operate it.

“Well,” her mother asked, not happy when she didn’t know something. It wasn’t that she hated being left out of the loop as much as she was used to being the loop.

“It’s… Preston,” Amy spat out and finally just put her phone down for a moment, regaining her composure. “He’s in the hospital, he’s really sick.” She stood. “I need to go see him, I need to get a cab.” Amy was shoveling everything back into her purse and looking for the check. It was all quite overwhelming. Her mother said something to her about slowing down or some such like that, but all she could do was try and breathe.

“Oh, the foul mouthed child you brought to dinner.”

“Mother,” the comment was sobering to Amy. “Don’t.”

She handed her mother the check and repositioned her purse another time before turning to walk out.

“Amy, stop. I can have the care come pick us up. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

            “I, fine, let’s just hurry.”

            As she waited for her mother to pay the check and take her time speaking to the waitress about her tip it gave Amy’s mind a moment to think.

            “Alex,” she said out loud in an almost hushed tone as the thought struck her. “He was doing rounds at Mercy Hope today.”

            She quickly dialed his number, unsure if he would pick up since he was at work and probably following other doctors around. There were four rings and she was already contemplating how to word the message but he picked up.

            “Darling, this is odd getting a call from you.”

            “I know, I know,” in fact she was almost never the one who called him, “I need a favor Alex, I’m sorry.”

            “Are we still on for tonight?”

            “Yes, well maybe…I’m not cancelling I just.” She stopped and realized she just needed to pause a moment. “I need you to check in on someone for me please. I have a very sick friend and I need to know what’s going on. I know you’ll explain it to me.”

            The hospital waiting room moved around Amy. She was unaware of what was going on as she watched the set of double doors waiting for something to happen, someone to explain. The only thing that existed to her right then was her phone. She had been trying to keep herself busy through texting. It helped her in other situations, why not now? She had sent April about nine messages but there was little her coffee pal could do. She texted Pam, Preston’s sister, but she was busy dealing with her family who were currently out of the country. She had even sent Miguel a very vague worrisome text that he had responded to in typical fashion, too calmly. She wasn’t calm right now though and she wouldn’t be calm until she heard the answers she was looking for.

            Her mother sat beside her, uncomfortable and out of place. She had been holding a tissue up to her mouth in fear of catching something. This was one of the few times Deborah would attempt to show her support for her daughter, even though from what little bit of interactions she had with Preston she felt that nothing of importance was on the line. The truth was that she couldn’t tell you the names of any of Amy’s friends that she was currently still friends with. If you had asked her she would have rambled off names from play dates that stretched back to when Amy was eight. Preston was the only one of her friends who she could convince to try and deal with her parents for an evening, he thought it was entertaining of course. Deborah had pondered how long she was obligated to stay here and still look like she was being supportive. What amazes me is that at no point in this woman’s adult life did she ever think she was a horrible mother. You could blame that on her mother, who was worse, but I digress again.

            Amy’s mother had felt that instead of being there and coddling her child it was best to teach her how to deal with things, how to survive. When Amy was fifteen and got caught giving Philip White a blowjob at that private school in Westchester she didn’t scold her but explained to her why she should keep her options open and at the same time not appear as a slut to others. When she failed a test she would hire tutors or donate money to the school. When it came to the matter of men breaking her heart, or the time Mr. Snuffles die, it was a matter of teaching her how to move on and learn from the situation. Her father was actually more comforting in some ways, even though he was still the strong silent type, she was daddy’s little girl after he got over the fact that he’d never have his little boy.

            Amy didn’t expect any type of comfort from her mother. She was surprised she actually came inside. She had almost forgotten that her mother was sitting there until she finally spoke up.

            “So who was it that called you again, dear?”

            “Pamela, his sister,” she said distantly.

            “What did she say?”

            There was a pause.

            “She was supposed to go meet him but he didn’t answer his door, it was unlocked though. She found him upstairs with just a sheet around him. He had fallen out of bed and she said he was hot to the touch, feverish. It looks like he had a rough night.” She paused again, checking her phone, disgusted not to find no new messages. “I’m not sure about when they got him here. She said they didn’t know much, just that he was critical and not responding.”

            Her mother pondered how to respond but figured it best not to. She instead watched the clock for several long minutes but before her own phone rang.

            “It’s your father. I’ll let him know what’s going on.”

            Deborah wandered off as she spoke to her husband, having to remind herself for the third time who they were there in the hospital to see. Amy actually felt a little bit better, more relaxed to worry, with her mother gone. She felt her hand shake just a bit as she raised her phone up to check yet another time. Before she could open the slider the double doors broke their silence and a thud of heavy material let her know someone was there to speak.

            She had never been so happy to see Alexander Hawethorn more than she was at that moment. Somehow the small white coat actually made him seem less like a douche, or perhaps that was her hoping that he was bringing good news. She leapt up from the waiting room chair and made her way to him in one large energetic step. His expression was hard to read though and that concerned her. Amy was good at reading him, even if it usually boiled down to one of three things. This was a new situation for them, for their relationship.

            “Sorry I’m late. Dr. Connors wanted me to look at something.”

            She found herself standing very close to him, her hands gripping his forearms as if she might fall. The amount of comfort found in her fiancé at that moment was a level she hadn’t even experienced when he was inside of her. She needed the stability though and it might have looked odd to ask Miguel to be there for her.

            “Did you—that’s fine—did you get a chance to look at Preston?”

            “Yeah, I did.” She felt him shift and what she thought might actually be a hug turned out to be his escape to the coffee machine. “I got a chance to look at his charts,” he said while he fished some change from his pocket and fed it into the machine. “His fever keeps coming back every time after they break it and it’s almost like he’s in some state of shock with the way his scans are showing up. Anything he says has been incoherent and as far as they can tell his blood is clean, it isn’t anything he’s taken.” He took a long sip and made an unsatisfied expression at the taste, though he should have been used to it. “They’re running some more tests.”

            “What,” the words just weren’t working for her. “is he- I mean- is he going to be okay though? There’s no chance he could…die, right?”

            He sipped his coffee as his eyes narrowed. For the first time Alex realized this wasn’t just about some acquaintance lying on a bed in the room down the hall. Alexander was a little overconfident though, he didn’t think he had any real challengers out there so to speak, but being the dutiful boyfriend right now would do him a lot of good. His hand gently pulled her close.

            “He’ll be fine. I’ll check in on him first thing in the morning.” He gave her the best smile he could and Amy bought it.

            There was no reason to stick around the hospital. They weren’t letting anyone in to see Preston and his sister was too busy and frazzled herself. She and Alex were supposed to go out that night, their first of what was supposed to be many more dates, now that he was coming to the end of his med school tenure. They ordered in instead and watched a documentary on plastic surgery. Amy was distant and still checking her phone for any news. Alex was wondering if tonight was still going to be good for sex at least, it wasn’t.

            It was an early night for both of them. Alex had to get up early for his medical rounds and she had a client. Neither one of them really slept well that night. It was when Amy finally did fall into slumber that she regretted it.

            In the darkness of Alex’s apartment Amy dreamt. Her legs twitched and fingers gripped the covers in uncomfortable spasms while her subconscious worked overtime. Beads of sweat popped up from the pores on her forehead. Jerking up out of bed she almost threw herself off of it. Alex lazily rose and narrowed his eyes at her.

            “Amy?”

            “I’m okay,” she responded, almost out of breath as she stood.

            She stumbled into the bathroom as her fingertips trailed along the white smooth wall to guide her. The door shut as the light came on. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror and splashed water on her face from the faucet. She had to struggle to remember what she looked like, the only thing she could remember at that moment was the face from her nightmare. 

Blood and Shadow - Pt. 2

Preston Black is a waste of space. Alright, perhaps that isn’t everyone’s opinion, certainly not his. I am entitled to my own though and I believe him to be a weak-willed self-important scab who tries to masquerade as something important other than a pimple on the ass of the world. He’s someone who sits in bars all night because he feels that nothing can happen to him, good or bad, if he just sits at home. Everything is an experience. He has one real friend and he thinks everyone else he knows is his friend also, this is a lie. Most of them dislike him or distrust him greatly. He’s a little conceded when he speaks and has a way of being crass without realizing it. He’s the kind of dick who comes across as slightly socially awkward until you really think about it and you remove the word slightly.

In Preston’s mind; his name is Preston Byron Black. How could you be anything less but spectacular with that name? His father’s name was Preston and he had a reputation for being one of the best lawyers in the state. No one got anything over on his father. His mother was an English teacher who had focused her studies on the Byronic hero, thus she chose her son’s middle name to her liking and fought her husband’s wish for their son to be Preston George Black the second. At some point in his pretentious youth though Preston decided that with a name like that he was destined for greatness to fall into his lap. Something had to happen, he just had to get out there and let it slap him in the face. In truth though, the idea of nothing ever happening to him was just too depressing that it scared him. He even took up journalism because he thought he would be famous for breaking some story or get thrust in the middle of some trouble that would lead to his adventure. I told you he was pathetic.

I blame his parents. Parents today lie to their kids and indulge them in fantasies, telling them they can be someone or an astronaut or some other such nonsense when they should be saying, just aim for that bachelors degree and a job you won’t go on a killing spree at dear. Anything else just isn’t promised to you and is most likely and unrealistic dream. Every mother thinks their child is an angel and tells them so, mothers lie. Nothing had happened to him though. There was no great mystery, adventure, or super powers that had been thrust upon him. No, Preston Black was never going to live up to his own expectations. Instead he tried to impress everyone around him while still waiting for Destiny to walk up and slap him in the face.

He met Amy almost three years ago at the college and he was immediately attracted to her. He made a reason to say hello one cold evening and then offered his jacket. She had smiled at him. It was love at first sight. That’s just it though, it wasn’t for her. He thought she might be having these same stirring feelings without doing any real investigating and the moment she didn’t respond the way he thought she should he tried to switch up his tactics. He was almost mean to her, it had worked for others, and it had worked in the movies so why wouldn’t it work here? When that didn’t get the job done he tried to become more amusing and through a series of failed attempts when he should have stayed the course as himself Amy had found a new friend and Preston found a girl to work towards that he would never be able to make work without dropping everything. Let’s not dwell on that though.

Tonight like many others Preston set alone on a stool in Barcade staring at a napkin he had scribbled some words down on. His usual partner in crime had a prior engagement and although there were plenty of attractive eager women around him his confidence had that same prior engagement. It’s okay though, because if Amy had skipped her date with Dr. Douche and gone out with him tonight the evening may have gone much differently. You see Preston was right, he was a part of something bigger. He was waiting for destiny to come slap him on the ass and introduce him to her friend opportunity. That just wasn’t in his cards. Preston was never meant to be a leading man; rather a pawn in a much larger scheme.

            “Jack and coke,” a woman’s voice exclaimed loudly right near his ear as she tried to push her way in between him and another woman at the bar who reluctantly scooted over and let her nudge in.

            He was about to say something snarky to her, wondering why she hadn’t gone to the other end of the bar where it was clearly less crowded. His mouth opened to say the words and dash her across the rocks for bothering him but he saw her eyes. In the light they were almost purple.

            “Excuse me,” she said halfheartedly to him as she leaned over the stool the other woman had abandoned and yelled her order once more to the bartender. She was wearing a black button up shirt with a ruffled collar over a thin tank-top. The dark jean shorts that went with it were about as short as they could be, but she had the legs to pull them off. She was smiling with the grin of a mischief-maker who had just found something to get into, or the other way around.

            “Why do you look like you’re moping in a bar filled with people and classic arcade games?”

            It was an honest question she had asked, to anyone other than Preston who jumped to being defensive about his mood.

            “What,” he was surprised at the brazen nature of her question. “I’m not mopey, I was thinking about some writing.” He had never met this girl before and was already a bit put off by her. He was used to being the one making people feel that way.

            She smiled, “I’m sorry, this is too perfect. You’re telling me that the forlorn writer came to a place filled with people to try to exist in a world by himself while he pondered his work?” She laughed and took her drink.

            “Where do you get off?”

            She took a long drink and leaned back on the stool, propped against the bar.

            “Well everyone else came here to meet people, have fun, maybe make some mistakes. So that is what I’m doing, and that’s where I get off, as you said.” She took a long drink of the dark liquor as he watched her.

            “Why have I never seen you here before?”

            “It’s a big city.”

            “I’m here a lot.”

            She smirked, “Maybe this isn’t the best place to write?”

            “A point that’s hard to argue,” Preston stood and waved the bartender over and paid for his tab and motioned that the girl’s drink was on him as well, a girl like her never really had to pay for her own drinks. “Why don’t we get out of here then and go someplace else, somewhere not too pretentious.”

            “I just got here. I had plans to play some games.” She said but her eyes begged a retort. She drank in the last bit of booze from the glass and placed it back on the bar.

            “Right,” he smirked at her and stepped closer, his voice still raised a bit to make sure she could still hear him. “Well I promise you I’m better than any of the games in here, other than maybe “Contra”, and you won’t have to wait in line or wade through people if we get out of here.”

            Looking back over her shoulder, as if considering, she paused and let out an inaudible sight. She offered her arm to the young suitor. “Fine, but you had better at least be “Paper-boy” kind of fun or I’m going to demand some free quarters for my next trip.”

            The two stepped out onto the sidewalk and witnessed a near wreck between two cars as they both paused, seeing which way the other would go.

            “I’m Alma by the way, if you’re the type that likes names with faces.”

            “Preston,” he said and should have stopped there, “as long as the name is equally beautiful as the face.”

            “Charming, which way are we heading heartbreaker?”

            “Preston,” he told her.

            “Really? There are real people named that,” she laughed. “I mean, I probably won’t remember it anyway but that’s still cute.”

            “Oh, I’m glad my parents could amuse you. Alma isn’t exactly a common name either.”

            “No but it doesn’t make me sound like I have a trust fund either. What is your last name, Hilton, Rockefeller, Hawthorn?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “No, no it’s Black.”

            “Oohh, how ominous,” she seemed genuinely intrigued, interested, something. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he felt like he had made all the right moves. “Well Mr. Black, Mr. Preston Black, where are we headed?”

            She leaned in as her fingers played with the line of his jacket as if she were inspecting the material. She was good.

            “There’s a park near here. I thought we could go take a walk and get to know each other.” It was his step two. Fault him as you will but Preston needed a girl who was talented in bed but could hold a conversation before and afterwards. “There’s also an amazing ice cream place in Chinatown if that’s more your style.”

            “Oh, and here I was thinking you were trying to get me to your apartment.”

            He laughed, “You move fast.”

             “I’ve got a long night planned ahead of me and I don’t care much for wasting time,” her smile was inviting but it quickly pulled back as if she realized she may have come on too strong. “Unless bedding me wasn’t what you were after, I’m a little quick to react sometimes.”

            ‘No, you weren’t wrong.”

            Preston couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he stepped one foot out into the street and lifted his hand, waiting for the first cab that would stop. He opened the door for his new companion and spent a lot of the ride to his apartment admiring her legs and she was more than willing to present herself for inspection. Alma worked hard on her appearance, she was a fetish model, but she didn’t tell Preston that. She told him that she was in school for art, the best lies are half-truths. He spilled a little more than he meant to towards her. This was the first woman in a long time that Preston hadn’t hated or found repulsive for one reason or another, other than his best friend of course. The right type of girl for him had to have a little bit of that same venom he possessed, a hatred for the world and all of the sheep in it, but a desire to live and be something, like Preston thought he was supposed to be. Alma was about to help show Preston how important he really was, even if it was as a tool.

            He had paid the cab driver quickly so that he could unlock the door. Something perhaps made him think that she would change her mind after coming this far with him. A slight nagging at the back of his mind wondered if he was rushing into—literally—someone that he needed to be slow with and nurture a good relationship, what would Amy say in this situation? What would her advice be. He sent her a text to have his curiosity sated.

            Message to Amy: “Found something I like”

Mistake or not, Alma wasn’t going to wait to find out. Preston realized she had set her mind on something and so she would have it. As soon as the door to his apartment was open she had already left her shoes at the door and her black button-up shirt draped across the banister.

Preston wrapped his arm around her waist and went into kiss her after laying his keys down on the counter.

“I was going to ask if you wanted a drink or something but I guess not.”

She side-stepped the kiss and smirked, “actually that’d be awesome, and some music too.” She was being playful and he was happy to oblige. “Where’s the bedroom, upstairs?”

“Yep,” Preston said walking to his liquor cabinet. He heard her feet heading up the steps behind him as he found something light for her. He decided against pouring himself one as he threw his jacket onto the couch and walked over to his stereo. Nine Inch Nails and Pearl Jam were his only two current choices in the CD player and as you can imagine he wanted to hurry upstairs. He let Trent do his work and went to grab her drink as he heard her move around up there.

Upstairs, Alma had taken a look at the bedroom and made sure the lights were dim or out. She reached into the short shorts she had on and pulled out a folded clear bag that held something slender and dark in it. Quickly removing the contents the baggie was stuffed back into the pockets. She straightened out what appeared to be a long crow’s feather that had some type of green flakes that she tried to protect while leaning down. The black object was placed carefully under the bed in the center and she whispered something that was almost a pleading prayer.

She stood back up quickly, nervous as she unbuttoned the shorts and stepped out of them. She heard Preston coming up the steps with the drink and unclasped her bra, tossing it onto the shorts. When he got up to his room it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to see the beautiful woman with excellent curves wearing the black thong lying on his bed with her arms spread and a smile on her face. She wasn’t too thin and was in shape with curves that he couldn’t stop tracing with his eyes.

“The drink is for after. If you can’t tell I was kind of ready for you now.”

For once Preston had nothing to say. The drink was sat down to be at the ready for her when they were done and he was inside of her, in multiple positions, before their night ended. She was energetic in bed, he liked that. She was willing to follow his movements and pleasure him how she thought he wanted it. The only thing she didn’t do was scream his name. They fucked for hours. She tired him out and kept telling him he needed to do more. In the end she let him cum on her and used one of his shirts lying next to the bed to clean herself off.

She downed the drink by the bed in one gulp as he lay there, exhausted.

“Thanks champ,” she said getting dressed.

“So when are you going to let me take you out?”

“Let's see if you can find me again, then we’ll talk about that.”

“I’m there every night,” he reminded her, “and way better than “Paper-boy”, or am I wrong?”

She just smiled. “Get some rest.” She said it with little though and turned to head downstairs. She grabbed her shirt and shoes and he listened to the door shut.

“Dammit…” He should have gotten her number. He should have worn a condom. He could have done better, impressed her more. This all ran through his mind as he turned over and realized he was really tired, he needed to take her advice and get some rest. It would be one of the most sleepless nights he ever had.